


Necessary Pains

by doorknoblicking



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time Together, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, handjobs, kind of, on accident, ooc, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:24:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorknoblicking/pseuds/doorknoblicking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock breaks his arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessary Pains

John had /told/ him he couldn’t scale the sides of buildings like that and expect not to get away without a couple of scrapes and bruises. Stubborn as an ox, however, Sherlock disregarded any concerns for his own safety, God forbid, and scrabbled along after the suspect; all the way up a damned gutter to a second-floor window. The supposed “genius” almost made it, too – it was the stretch from the gutter to the window that was his ultimate downfall (no pun intended).

Lucky for Sherlock, nothing was broken or busted open that put his life in immediate danger, but his ulna in his right arm was fractured and the serial arsonist did, in fact, get away to set fires in another city somewhere. It had been terrifying for John – watching Sherlock fall and smack the concrete. It was just a God send that the detective had enough sense to hit the ground and roll – John didn’t know what he would have done had something happened other than the detective breaking his arm. 

Only when John and Sherlock returned from the hospital after the X-Rays, the waiting rooms, the papers, and the charts at nearly one in the morning and John realized halfway up the stairs that Sherlock was still struggling with his jacket that this was going to be an adventure. Honestly, it was surprising that Sherlock hadn’t broken a bone before in John’s company. Being Sherlock, he should have had quite the record, but John had no experience with how he would deal with an impediment that he couldn’t fix with his mind, no matter how brilliant. 

“It wasn’t worth it. The fire escape was right there, Sherlock,” John muttered, his tone lacking the scorn he wished he could back it up with. Of course the doctor pitied the detective (he knew how a broken bone felt, he really did), but this behavior was never-ending with Sherlock. It was as if he had no grasp on what was safe and what was not, only John knew he did and he just failed to care.

“If I had managed to grab the window ledge, he would have been apprehended then and there,” Sherlock huffed, the shadows under his eyes appearing more perspicuous under the dim light in the front hall. “We would have been home hours ago.”

John looked, for a moment, from where he was at the bottom of the stairs to Sherlock, standing by the closet with his arm halfway out of his jacket. The man looked fatigued; defeated, almost, but indignant as ever. It was strange to see Sherlock looking so desolate, but John understood. John knew the severity of losing a suspect and what it meant to Sherlock, no matter how small the case. It was not only a blow to his ego, but John could tell that failure was never something that had been acceptable in his book. To fail was to lose, and to Sherlock, everything was a game – one huge game where winning was the only prize.

“C’mere,” The doctor said, advancing toward Sherlock and working the sleeve of the thick Belstaff off of Sherlock’s arm before hanging it up. John shoved Sherlock’s shoulder a bit, jerking his chin upward. “Go upstairs, try to get changed. I’ll make a cuppa before bed. We’ll figure out what to do about Aaron Lancaster tomorrow because right now, you need to rest. It’s the only way your arm is going to get better faster, I promise.”

Sherlock scowled, but he silently skulked up the stairs without any smart remarks in reply. Perhaps he himself was tired or perhaps he knew they were /both/ tired and didn’t need any unnecessary bickering tonight. Whichever, John was just happy with the fact that he wasn’t disobeying John's instructions. John followed after him and stopped in the kitchen to put the kettle on before he went to his own room to change into his pajamas. When he returned, Sherlock was sprawled bare-chested on the sofa. John cocked his head. 

“Aren’t you cold?” John asked, knowing the furnace in their flat wasn’t exactly the newest model (or even a working model). Even he wore a jumper to bed during the winter.

Some sort of muffled rumble emitted from behind Sherlock’s closed lips that seemed like a neutral response, but the detective opened his eyes and tilted his head over the arm of the couch to gaze upside down at John like he had something else to say. His curls hung down (haircut soon, John would remind him later) and the shape of his lips, and maybe just his lips in general, were more intriguing than usual from this new angle. That’s not to say, of course, that his lips were intriguing in the upright angle because, obviously, that would be odd and would impress the idea that John wished to find something out about Sherlock’s lips, like how they felt or what it would be like to lick smeared jam from them and, obviously, John didn’t want to find out either of those things because Sherlock was his friend, not his boyfriend, not his partner, just his friend. Obviously.

John scrunched his eyebrows together and held Sherlock’s gaze for a long moment while he waited for a coherent reply. When it didn’t come, John shrugged and shuffled to the kitchen to tend to the kettle. John shuffled from the kitchen to the sitting room, exhaustion wearing heavy on his limbs and making his move more slowly.

“Couldn’t get it on,” Sherlock said, his head still hanging from the arm of the couch when John set his tea on the coffee table beside him. John stilled, tilting his head and trying not to stare at the planes of his flatmate’s chest. Right, his flatmate’s chest, his friend’s chest – Sherlock’s chest. Christ, it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it before on multiple occasions. 

It was cold, though, it couldn’t be more than sixty-eight degrees in the flat, and… No, Sherlock didn’t have breasts, but the effect the temperature had was shamefully erotic. Not to mention the dusty trail of hair that led under a pair of loose pajama pants. John wet his lips, considering, but forced himself to blink and tear his gaze away. This was not okay. 

“I’ll help you, if you’d like. It is chilly in here,” John offered, setting his own tea down next to Sherlock’s and swearing to keep his gaze strictly neck-and-up.

“No, it’s…” Sherlock pursed his lips and lifted his head, masking a grimace with a cough at the way he had to bend his arm to sit up. “I’m fine. … Thank you,” Sherlock added after a moment, shifting his unreadable gaze over to John.

John grunted in acknowledgement, retreating to his own chair with his tea despite the fact that Sherlock had seemingly made the effort to sit up in order to make room for John on the other side of the couch. It was a kind gesture; surely Sherlock was trying to express his gratitude for John having stuck with him throughout the whole hospital ordeal when he could have gone home, but right now, John couldn’t will the half-hard erection in his pajama pants away, much less sit next to a half-naked Sherlock. He was acting like a teenage boy, but his mind was running on fumes and both his control and patience were wearing dangerously thin. What he needed most – what they both needed most, he and Sherlock – was a good night’s rest. Tomorrow there would be a lot more patience for these kinds of situations. Tomorrow, maybe, John could manage to control himself. 

A silence blanketed the room, sans the sound of the telly Mrs. Hudson must have left on by accident when she fell asleep. There was no reason for either of them to continue sitting there, sipping their tea, but neither made the first move to leave. John was more than happy to enjoy his book in his chair to try to get his mind off of the pleasant view across the room from him (but not to leave it), and Sherlock seemed to have contented himself to stare at the ceiling.

John heard Sherlock shift quite a bit and heard the flutter of clothing, but he was immersed in The Catcher in the Rye and was trying not to be disrupted. It was moments after that that John felt the atmosphere of the room change, solidified by the soft yet lascivious keen that tumbled from Sherlock’s lips. John’s head jerked up, his eyebrows furrowed as he settled his gaze on Sherlock.

Sherlock’s thighs had spread and his left hand was twisting one of his nipples while his head remained upright enough to gaze across at John, eyes hooded and pupils giant saucers floating in a sea of blue and grey. Sherlock’s broken arm was motionless at his side, but his left hand moved from his left nipple to the right, his lips parted and wet in what seemed a lewd invitation. There was a tent in his pajama pants, but Sherlock had made no move to touch himself yet.

It wasn’t something John expected to see – it wasn’t something John had ever expected to see –, it was inappropriate not only in the context but in general, and it was ridiculously vulgar. John’s face heated up in only moments and The Catcher in the Rye fell to his lap to cover the his full-on erection.

It was a number of seconds before John gathered enough shame to shield his eyes with hand and muster together somewhat of a proper sentence.

“What the fuck, Sherlock? What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck?”

Sherlock hummed deep in his chest, hearing the scold in John’s tone and not giving a damn – John could hear the way the hum morphed into a purr from across the room and he swore there couldn’t be enough blood getting to his brain because Christ, that was sexy and he was hard as fuck.

“Experimenting to see if I can successfully masturbate using my less dominant hand. The experiment has always been on my list, but the opportunity to get around to it failed to present itself until now,” Sherlock said and it was impossible to not loathe – or envy – the way his voice could be completely composed while he had otherwise looked so… Damn.

“Awesome, Sherlock, awesome, seriously – I’m so happy for you, really, but why the fuck are you doing it here? Now? In the living room with me sitting right here?” John asked, pressing harder on his eyes as if that could strengthen his resolve to not look again.

Sherlock fucking mewled, then, like a Goddamn kitten, and John parted his fingers to look through them at what must have forced such a sound from Sherlock’s lungs. “Christ, Sherlock,” John hissed, dropping his hand from his eyes in defeat and watching the way the detective drew saliva-slicked fingers from the pale, hardened bud of one nipple to the other, alternating back and forth.

A smirk curved the corners of Sherlock’s mouth up and he met John’s gaze with a challenge in his own eyes, a wicked glint making them shine. “You don’t mind, do you?” Sherlock rumbled, drawing his hand from his nipples to instead slide under the elastic waist of his pajama pants. 

John was rock hard in his pajama pants and the damned book did nothing to hide the fact. Fuck.

“Why are you doing this in here?” John managed to repeat, but his tone was husky and it broke on the end. He stopped trying to quit staring at watched Sherlock’s hand work up and down under the thin fabric of his pajama pants. John’s gaze flickered indecisively from Sherlock’s groin to his face – John wanted nothing more than to kiss the smirk off his mouth forever; or fuck it off, maybe. At the thought, another hot rush of blood plummeted to his cock and John squirmed, wishing he could palm himself through his pajama pants, at least.

“If I’m unsuccessful, I’m trusting you to finish the job,” Sherlock said, and John gained at least a smidgen of satisfaction from the fact that Sherlock’s voice quaked.

As impossible as it was, John was distracted from the sight of Sherlock’s fist working beneath his pajama pants for a moment. “What? You want me to what?”

“You’re going to bring me to climax if I’m unsuccessful,” Sherlock rephrased, falling silent and lowering his gaze to John’s lap. “You can touch yourself, too, if you’d like.”

Sputtering, John lifted one of his knees in an attempt to shield the tent in his pants from Sherlock’s gaze. “No! I’m not going to… Christ, Sherlock, no!” He exclaimed, panicked, and decided eventually that this was enough and he was done. He wasn’t… This was insane. He wasn’t doing this. This wasn’t happening.

John stood, trying to withhold as much of his damaged dignity as he could. He lifted his chin and leveled his gaze with Sherlock’s. “I’m not doing that; no. This is crazy.”

Sherlock seemed shocked; taken aback, at the very least, and he stilled. He looked confused, more than anything. “John, please. I wouldn’t…” He swallowed thickly. “I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t know you wanted it. Your erection isn’t just because it’s a normal bodily reaction, it’s because you’re attracted to me. I thought that meant this was okay – I thought that meant you would think this is okay.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John murmured, his eyebrows knotting together. “Fuck, that’s…” John scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, I’m attracted to you, but this isn’t… You can’t do this. You can’t ask this of me.”

Sherlock frowned in confusion, his expression troubled. “Don’t you want this, though?”

“Yeah, I want to… Yes, I would fucking love this, but…”

Sherlock raised his chin slightly. “But?”

“We haven’t talked about this. We haven’t… I never even knew you liked me – Hell, I still don’t know! Do you even like me or are you doing this because you think it would make me happy?”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course I like you, you idiot. And yes, I’m also doing this to make you happy. If it will make you happy, that is…” Sherlock tapered off into silence, wetting his lips. He was still sitting in a ridiculously compromising position, his thighs spread lewdly and his cock straining against his pajama pants.

Thoughtfully, the doctor shuffled over to Sherlock and bit back the smile that threatened to crack his lips as the closer John came, the wider Sherlock's eyes got. Silently, John leaned down to press his lips to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He could hear the small intake of breath and felt when Sherlock turned his head a fraction of an inch, seeking John’s mouth more fully. John complied, his lips dry against Sherlock’s and his heart doing acrobatics in his chest.

The kiss was short and not as eloquent as John would have liked, but it certainly wasn’t uneventful. When John pulled back, he was grinning as he hissed, “Fuck, this is crazy.”

Sherlock pressed forward again, seeking another kiss with hungry lips. This time, John parted his lips and slid his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip, tasting and wanting to memorize and cherish and keep.

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat and John could sense his hands hovering near his shoulders. John knew Sherlock wanted to touch, wanted to grab, and wanted to own because John wanted the same thing, but before that, the doctor had to pull back.

“We have to be careful of your arm,” He murmured, sliding his gaze down to where it rested on the sofa seat before it flickered back up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. 

“I don’t care about my fucking arm, for God’s sake, John,” Sherlock growled, surging forward once again to steal his lips. John was surprised at the way his mouth was ravaged by Sherlock’s tongue, seeking, finding, and taking whatever he wanted. Now John let out his own moan, formed in the base of his throat. John could feel Sherlock grin against his mouth. 

John pulled back and yanked off Sherlock’s pajama pants before he slid to the ground in front of Sherlock and planted his hands on both of his knees to push them apart and spread his thighs open even further, drinking in the sight and feeling his own cock pulse. He gazed up at Sherlock as he ducked his head to press an open mouthed kiss to the inside of his knee, moving up along the inner seam of his thigh until he reached his erection where he skipped over to catch the fleshy part of Sherlock’s opposite thigh with his teeth before continuing down to his knee with more open-mouthed, wet kisses, sucking in places and planting bruises that said owned by another. 

Sherlock hips canted upward slightly in desperation, whining pleadingly and reaching down to thread the fingers of the hand free of his cast through John’s short blond hair. “Please, John,” Sherlock hissed, scraping his nails along John’s skull and pushing his hips forward toward his mouth with a sort of urgency, the tip of Sherlock’s cock topped with a bead of pre-come.

John’s smile then was equivalent to that of the Devil’s in that it was both scandalous and sly. It was his turn to feel triumphant and his turn to hold the power in his hand to make Sherlock squirm and plead. 

John leaned forward and dragged his tongue along the underside of Sherlock’s cock to paint a thick strip, his eyelids hooded. John’s hands smoothed slowly up Sherlock’s thighs until they could wrap around his hips and hold them still. John swirled his tongue around the leaking head before he slid his lips down just enough to take the tip of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. 

John felt Sherlock squirm at the sudden intense heat and squeezed his hips gently in reply, working his mouth down slightly and massaging Sherlock’s glans with his tongue, forcing a startled sort of gasp out of Sherlock’s mouth that quickly rolled into a mixture of a moan and a cry. John hummed his approval softly when Sherlock tightened his hand in John’s hair and applied a slight amount of pressure, pushing him down and forcing more of his cock down his throat.

John made up for what he couldn’t reach with his fist, wrapping his palm around the base of Sherlock’s cock and working it as he bobbed his head up and down. Sherlock was a wreck above him, the hand in his hair slipping down to wrap halfway around his neck while the other hand gripped desperately at the cushion of the couch, broken arm or not. A string of profanities rushed out of Sherlock, John’s name becoming an interlude every third or fourth “fuck.” 

John couldn’t miss this – he couldn’t miss Sherlock coming undone at the work of his own hand, couldn’t miss this beautiful fucking idiot’s eyelids fluttering as he tipped over the edge and spilled down John’s own throat, couldn’t miss the way his lips would curve into an ‘o’ and his face would take on an expression that no one else had seen before, let alone appreciated.

John strained to look at the detective while his lips dragged up the length of Sherlock’s shaft and sucked tight around the head. Sherlock’s hips rocked upward to fuck the doctor’s mouth despite John’s attempts to hold them back, and at one time John had to muffle “Sherlock,” before the detective got the point. John’s tongue rolled against the tip and worked where he knew was sensitive, hollowing his cheeks and twisting his wrist around Sherlock’s cock where it was wrapped at the base.

Sherlock’s hand in John’s hair fisted and the detective’s voice was hardly coherent through all the heavy breathing. “Fuck, John, fucking Christ, John,” Sherlock gasped in warning, not giving John any time at all before his hips were stuttering and Sherlock cursed once more. John didn’t pull back, but slid forward to take it down his throat, working him through it with his tongue while his hand caressed Sherlock’s thigh. John’s gaze remained focused on Sherlock’s face, his expression, his everything. Fuck – fuck, he loved him, fuck.

Eventually, John pulled back and released Sherlock’s flaccid cock from his lips, pulling his pajama pants back up and setting them around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock looked wrecked. His hair was in tangles from all his squirming and his limbs looked like they were composed of jelly. John didn’t realize he was smiling until Sherlock cracked open his eyes and grumbled, “Quit grinning like an idiot and get up here.”

John got up from his knees – fuck, ow, bad idea not to use a pillow – and was remade aware of his hard-on. He bit his lip, unsure despite the conversation they’d had before this if it was called for Sherlock to return the favor. “Listen, I can… Finish myself off, you don’t need to – oh, Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock had tugged John’s pajama pants down around his thighs in a matter of seconds and was working his cock in his left hand, gazing up at John through his lashes, eyes like a doe’s. 

“I hope you’ll be able to excuse me – I haven’t had much experience in the field of oral sex. If this is unsatisfactory, howev –”

“Shut the fuck up,” John hissed, his hips rocking forward into Sherlock’s hand. “Shut the fuck up, you’re fucking perfect – Christ,” John groaned, staring hungrily down at Sherlock, his pupils still blown wide with unbarred desire. “I don’t need much, I’m already… God, Sherlock… I’m so fucking close.”

Sherlock leaned forward and spit in his hand before reapplying it to John’s cock, twisting his wrist and thumbing his slit. John had to lean forward and press one hand against the wall behind the couch, the other cupping Sherlock’s cheek to drag him up for a kiss, their tongues invading one another’s mouth so Sherlock could taste himself on John’s tongue. 

It wasn’t long before John’s nails were sliding down the wall and grabbing a fistful of Sherlock’s curls and he was shooting onto his bare chest with a strained cry of his name, the detective’s calloused palm working him through it and milking him dry.

John tried his best to collapse to the side of Sherlock instead of directly on him, his legs wobbly and his entire body basking in the post-orgasmic bliss.

Sherlock shifted the best he could to put his left arm around John, but when John felt the weight of his arm on his shoulders, he mustered enough strength to pull his own pajama pants up and shift to a more comfortable position.

“You’ve got my come on you,” John mumbled drowsily, his head tilted back on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Clean it up if it bothers you so much,” Sherlock responded, his tone betraying just how exhausted he also was. 

“Don’t wanna get up,” John groaned on an exhale, wrinkling his nose.

“Use your mouth,” Sherlock shot back absently, tilting to rest his head on John’s.

The doctor snorted and grinned, pushing himself off of Sherlock. “Bed, c’mon,” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s left hand and tugging him up.

“Together?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrows arched.

“Of course we’re going to bed together. You’ll probably fall off the bed and land on your arm if I’m not there.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I know, shut up.”

“Was my left-handed handjob satisfactory?”

John huffed a laugh and stopped in the kitchen to grab a damp paper towel and clean Sherlock’s chest. “Yeah, obviously. Congrats.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said with a snarky grin. John punched him in the shoulder and shoved him down the hallway toward his bedroom. “Bed, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism appreciated - haven't written (at all) the gays in, like, 2 years.


End file.
